Their First Christmas by Roseann McGrath Brooks

Starting in the fall, this time of year seems to rush by, and I sometimes have trouble keeping up. What helps me stay grounded are my memories: Dressing up for Halloween as Batman, which engendered severe disapproval from my second-grade nun. Cooking my first not-so-bad-if-I-say-so-myself turkey for family Thanksgiving. Peeking around the corner early Christmas morning to see colorfully wrapped boxes, as well as the unwrapped trucks, bikes, and Barbie houses. Developing a new appreciation for my parents, when, as a mom, I had to put those unwrapped suckers together myself.

My favorite memory, though, is of my children’s first Christmas morning.

We adopted Sandra and Tomas in July of that year, and by December, they had turned six and four years old, respectively. As they had lived in Mexico until five months earlier, their English language skills were still far from perfect. Thus, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, my husband, Truman, and I kept repeating the standard Christmas themes: It’s the birthday of baby Jesus. Family will give them lots of gifts. Santa Claus will bring presents. We were thorough and sure they “got it.”

Truman is a minister, so like most years, that Christmas Eve was filled with services, singing, and lots of family. After the children went to bed, he and I did the requisite wrapping, filling of stockings, and putting together of “stuff” under the tree. We had hung the stockings over the fireplace in the living room, but the tree and the big gifts could fit only in the family room, which was on the other side of our ranch home. We trekked the length of the house and back at least twenty times that night before dropping off to sleep ourselves.

At 9 a.m. on Christmas day—yes, you read that right: definitely not early by children’s Christmas morning standards—we heard the pat-pat-pat-pat of footie pajamas, like slow raindrops, starting from the other side of the hall and ending in our bedroom. When we looked up, Tomas was standing at the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

“Did Santa Claus come?” I couldn’t resist asking.

He shook his head slowly from side to side. I was confused, but I persisted: “Are you sure? Why don’t you go check?”

He shrugged and did what his mom suggested. We listened to the pat-pat-pat-pat gliding into the living room. There was a pause, and then suddenly, instead of the melody of a gentle rain, we heard patta-patta-patta-patta as Tomas sprinted back to our room. He sounded like a frantic little drummer boy with, well, footie pajamas on his drumsticks.

Not quite having all the words he needed, our four-year-old gestured wildly for us to follow him back to the living room.

“Why don’t you get Sandra first?” we suggested.

He shot from our room to his sister’s, clearly dragging her out of bed as the shuffle of pajama feet indicated. My husband and I stilled as sister and brother patted to the living room together and then flew back to us, both children now gesturing wildly.

Truman and I followed them to the living room and then handed them their stuffed Christmas stockings. Because they seemed clueless, we encouraged them to take turns removing a little trinket from each stocking. Their quiet obedience to that guidance and their reverence for each silly gift was breathtaking.

We spent the next hour and a half pulling out and playing with stocking toys. Remember the plastic climbing monkeys? They were a big hit.

When the stockings were empty, both children sighed, as if exhausted after eating a huge meal.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” I asked. “Did Santa put any gifts under the tree?”

In unison, Sandra and Tomas solemnly shook their heads.

Their parents, however, migrated to the family room, followed by the shuffling of two sets of little feet. There, the tree glowed and presents abounded. Sandra and Tomas shrieked in joy.

I wish they could have worn footie pajamas forever.

Thanks to Liz and Liz’s readers for welcoming me to the Window as I looked through it to the past.

Roseann McGrath Brooks loves reading and writing about romance. And she really loves this time of year! Midnight Clear at Christmas, the third book in her Vacation Friends Romance series, is her favorite, but don’t tell the others. She is a full-time editor and part-time college writing tutor in suburban Philadelphia, and her two children, three grandchildren, and most of her extended family live nearby. (That’s Philly for you.) She also loves theater, bell choir, biking, running, skiing, the Eagles, and trying to keep her extroverted self in check. Oh, and she loves grammar; get fun grammar tips from her blog on her Website.

Bailey doesn’t do well with change. The last thing she needs is a new romance. And love is not on Tanner’s radar, either, so his budding friendship with Bailey is a perfect no-strings fit—especially at Christmastime. But when Tanner’s brother makes a Christmas Eve announcement that detours everyone’s best-laid plans, can love lead Bailey and Tanner to commit to a new path together?

“Do not worry about tomorrow.” from Matthew 6:34

Roseann McGrath Brooks